


Anatomy

by thestarsjustblinkforus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Chinese Food, M/M, Nudity, Photography, Pining, paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsjustblinkforus/pseuds/thestarsjustblinkforus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Come say hi on <a href="http://thestarsjustblinkforus.tumblr.com/">tumblr :)</a></p></blockquote>





	Anatomy

This is Combeferre’s doing.

So if it goes terribly Combeferre will owe him coffee.

All the coffee.

And dishes.

Combeferre will have to do all the dishes for the foreseeable future.

And the cleaning.

And the laundry.

And anything else that comes to Enjolras’s mind.

_“I’m helping Grantaire with a project...”_

An art project involving photography.

_“Why doesn’t he just photograph_ **_you_ ** _?”_

The  _since you’ve been spending so much time together_ goes unvoiced, but Enjolras is sure Combeferre has heard because Enjolras is very bad at hiding what he thinks. From everyone. But especially Combeferre.

_“Because I’m helping to make sure the anatomy is correct.”_

And Enjolras had blinked at him because that did not make any sense, but very little has since Combeferre and Grantaire decided to become the kind of friends who watch movies together until ungodly hours of the morning in the living room when Enjolras has an early class. The kind of friends who debate without arguing with each other before and after meetings which baffles Enjolras and perhaps makes him feel a little envious that he can not manage to do the same. 

The kind of friends who help each other with  _projects_.

Enjolras has never had any particular interest in the arts and he finds it very difficult being around Grantaire for a multitude of reasons, many of which he has not inspected too closely, but Combeferre asks very little in the way of favors and it is important to him that they try and get along. He and Grantaire had had a particularly nasty exchange the other night where he admittedly went too far and because he can not bring himself to apologize with words when he knows the apology will only ever be mocked or thrown back in his face, this will have to do. 

He hopes it will do.

Combeferre has  _implied_  that it will do and Combeferre does not lie, so...

He’s doing this. Posing. Or something. 

And his stomach has been in knots all morning because the thought of messing up and making things  _worse_  seems like a  _distinct_  possibility and he doesn't  _want_  worse... He wants...

And here comes the thing he doesn't examine too closely because it's pointless and a distraction and he doesn't have time for either of those things. Taking today off is going to prove a gigantic pain in the ass tomorrow, but Combeferre had said _"I think you'd be perfect for it. Grantaire does too..."_ and he might have fumbled a glass of water at that and because Combeferre is a good friend he hadn't commented, merely helped him wipe up the mess and reprinted his ruined notes for him while he was at class.

When he arrives at Grantaire’s apartment Combeferre is already there with a pile of his textbooks open on the table, printouts of intricate drawings of muscles and bones pinned to the walls and spread out on the floor grouped by parts of the body.

Grantaire and Combeferre are peering at a page in one of the books and smiling at each other over it and Enjolras feels something in him twist and he does not like it at all.

Grantaire notices him hovering in the doorway and smiles at him over Combeferre’s shoulder in a genuinely friendly way that startles him more than the question he follows it with: _“So how comfortable are you with nudity?”_

...

_All the chores, Combeferre._

**_All of them._**

/-/-/

He is very nearly entirely naked.

He is very nearly entirely naked in front of his best friend and... whatever it is Grantaire is, which, after  _two years_ he still does not  _know_ , and he is determined to be as unconcerned by it as he had told Grantaire he would be.

Grantaire had expected him to blush.

He had expected him to be indignant. Prudish.  _Embarrassed_.

He could see him waiting for it and so he’d said calmly,  _“Very”_  and proceeded to unbutton his shirt right there in his doorway.

Grantaire had come to him, touched the tips of his fingers lightly to his wrist, stopping him with an amused quirk of his lips,  _“Not yet... I haven’t decided how I’m going to paint you...”_ and Enjolras had frowned at him, confused.

_“I thought you were photographing me...?_

_“That too...”_

And what followed had been a rambling explanation of what the project is supposed to entail which has lead to him standing in the middle of the room now in his underwear with only a tentative understanding of what is actually going to be happening but a firm one that Grantaire finds the assignment to be  _"pretentious as fuck but that doesn't mean I want it to suck so thanks for lending me your um..._ ** _you_** _"_ , while Combeferre and Grantaire are not even  _looking_  at him and discussing whether or not black and white or color would be best. He assumed they were talking about photography but it appears they're discussing paint? He doesn't know. He's trying not to ask questions because he is so far out of his element he wouldn't even know where to begin to engage and he probably shouldn't anyway if he wants to not have to figure out yet  _another_  way to apologize when he inevitably gets into it with Grantaire the second he opens his mouth.

“I hope you’re not ticklish...” Grantaire cautions as he finally approaches him with a small paintbrush and a palette laden with an inky blue black, and Enjolras eyes it warily, answers stiffly, “Not at all,” not at all certain if that is actually  _true_.

Grantaire sets the palette and brush down on his chair and then suddenly reaches out to run both of his hands through Enjolras’s hair. He pauses when he startles and says gently, “I need your face,” before carefully smoothing back his curls from his forehead over and over again until they stay back well enough to proceed. 

Enjolras doesn’t think anyone has touched his hair like this since he was a child. He didn't realize something like that was something he would ever  _miss_ , but it hits him all at once that he does and he is almost disappointed when Grantaire, apparently satisfied, takes his hands away.

Combeferre comes to stand beside him nodding encouragingly as he holds one of the books out for Grantaire to see and Enjolras’s eyes flicker down to the image depicting the muscles of the face before Grantaire takes his chin lightly in his fingers, murmurs, “at me please” and begins to paint. 

And it feels... nice... the coolness of it on his skin, the delicate swipes over the contours of his face... it’s...  it’s surprisingly  _nice_. 

He's not ticklish at all, turns out.

He watches Grantaire work, his face close, what should be  _uncomfortably_  close, but somehow isn't. Mostly because he finds himself distracted from his proximity by the concentration he finds there - something he has never really seen before - and he finds it... interesting. Compelling. There is no trace of the unfocused spill of a person he is regularly confronted with and he finds himself baffled as to how many different people Grantaire can be and how he never seems to get the best ones. He gets The Cynic, he gets The Drunk, he gets the Mournful Starer with eyes like accusations, like his mere presence causes him some kind of indistinct  _pain_  and  _Maybe you just bring out the worst in him, like he brings out the worst in you..._

Because Combeferre gets friendly shoulder nudges and smiles. Courfeyrac gets  _grins_  bright and blinding, Bahorel barks of laughter and slaps on the back, Bossuet and Joly companionable arms slung around their shoulders, Feuilly an intense almost palpable respect which he  _understands_ , which he  _echoes_ albeit for different reasons and Prouvaire... Prouvaire gets fingers stained with paint combing through his hair without a thought, like reaching for someone is that simple, that easy, and he remembers Grantaire’s hands in his own hair, his sudden disarming smile at his entrance earlier which he is sure was just a remnant of some conversation or  _moment_  with  _Combeferre_  and his throat suddenly goes tight and his breath suddenly hitches at the want of it, the want of all these things that he can not seem to have with him himself. Grantaire's brush pauses briefly at his throat as he swallows it down, but he does not look up at him. He has studiously avoided his eyes entirely since releasing his chin and he continues undeterred along his collarbone to his breast, pausing again only for Combeferre to flip a page or pull down another one of the print outs for closer inspection.

Combeferre mouths a “Thank you” at him when Grantaire turns away to put on some music and he nods distractedly as he watches his retreating back and then looks away when he feels Combeferre  _watching_  him look. He feels a bit shaken up to be honest. And if it were just he and Combeferre here he would admit to it. And he would ask Combeferre how he does it, how he manages to be  _friends_  with him like he has been wanting to ask him for weeks but hasn't because he doesn't want to come across as possessive and needy. Or jealous.

Because he  _is_. And not of Grantaire, but  _Combeferre_... and... and  _all_  of them really. And he doesn't like it, doesn't like how it makes him feel, how it's been taking up too much of his thoughts lately, thoughts that should be concentrated on  _other things_  and, really, he doesn't want to be thinking at  _all_  so  _let's just concentrate on something else alright?_

_Like..._

Like the faucet in the bathroom must be loose. He can hear the drip drip drip of water hitting porcelain. He had't noticed it before under the sound of Combeferre turning pages and sliding a finger down them to indicate details, the squeaking of Grantaire’s rolling chair beneath him as he shifted to get a better angle but it's steady and something to hold onto when he feels himself veering off into a direction he does not want to go, especially  _right now_ , especially  _here_.

Grantaire settles back into his chair as something with strings begins and the water drips in time like a metronome and he decides, yes, concentrating on that will do just nicely until Grantaire places his hand on his hip to steady himself. He glances up at him as the muscles of his stomach flutter under the unexpected touch and suddenly there is no sound at all, there is just a warm hand on his skin and eyes that are very very green.

Grantaire swallows imperceptibly and looks away first but does not remove his hand. Enjolras suddenly wishes Combeferre was not there with them and almost like he’s read his mind, he glances up at the cat clock that's inexplicably wearing an eye patch and murmurs that he needs to make a quick phone call. He steps away, passing the paper he’s been holding for Grantaire to Enjolras, and when he takes it from him his hand is shaking a little and he knows Grantaire notices but he doesn’t say a word and he is grateful for it.

Combeferre leaves them and the sound of the door closing echoes in the room that suddenly seems so much smaller, Grantaire’s hand still warm at his hip as he holds him still, the slow slide of the paint down his ribcage, the sound of their breath that sounds  _different_  now, heavier, and it's like music too, a soft sort of music that makes him feel alternately warm and calm and then churned up and hot. It melds effortlessly with the instrumental gently pouring out from R’s beaten up laptop and it’s something he recognizes from Combeferre and he says after a moment of listening to everything, the music,  _their_  music ducking and weaving in a sigh here, a squeak of the chair there, the soft tremble of the paper in his hand, “Why me for this?” and Grantaire answers as he concentrates on the area just below his navel and just above the low slung line of his boxers,

“Because you’re as white as paper and from what I could tell practically hairless which is helpful for what I’m doing... Also Jehan wasn’t available....”

“So I wasn’t your first choice?” he jokes, his throat going tight with that awful jealousy all over again and,  _oh_ , the heat of his palm, the  _press_  of his fingers suddenly  _firmer_  as Grantaire's brush comes to a rest at the top of his recreated hipbone, and then softly, the softest he has ever heard him speak, 

“You’re always my first choice. I just didn’t think you’d say yes.”

A drop of paint falls from the brush and lands a perfect circle on Grantaire’s knee and he desperately wants him to look _up_ , to look at  _him_  instead of it and he says in a rush,  _“Are you dating Combeferre?”_  because he needs to know. Because he has suspected it for weeks and he can't... if Combeferre... if he and Combeferre aren't just friends or don't want to be just friends... He can't... and Grantaire blinks up at him then with his eyes that are so very green and how did he never realize how  _green_  his eyes are and he is preparing himself for his answer, for slamming the door that he has just opened inside himself shut and barricading it when Grantaire smiles.  

And then laughs. 

And then outright  _guffaws._

“What?” Enjolras frowns, “Why is that funny?”

“Enjolras.”

“What?”

“Combeferre is ass over heels for Eponine.”

Enjolras blinks at him, because  _no he’s not_.

“Has he told you that?”

“Of course not,” he snorts, “Ferre doesn’t talk about that kinda stuff...” and Enjolras very much does  _not_  like the authority with which he says this.

“Then how do you know?”

“Because I have  _eyes_. I bet you dinner he’s calling her right now.”

“You’re on,” he accepts immediately because Grantaire does  _not_  know his best friend better than he does. 

Although he is right that Combeferre never speaks of romantic attachments. In all the years he’s known him he’s only been in two relationships and they were just suddenly there and then not anymore.

Courfeyrac who is much better equipped to discuss things like crushes, is usually surprised but absolutely delighted when it happens.

Enjolras is usually confused and vaguely irritated.

“I’m flattered you think he’d have me,” Grantaire murmurs and goes back to work, tugging on the edge of his boxers to get at more of his skin. “Can I take these off you?”

Enjolras flushes and Grantaire is not looking at him again in a way that feels intentional but he says, “Of course” with more certainty than he feels as he stares down into the mess of his hair sticking out every which way like a pile of branches. He had said at the beginning that he did not mind it and though he somehow knows Grantaire would not tease him if he refused now, this whole endeavor has been... pleasant. It has been pleasant and he doesn’t want to make it awkward because... because it’s surprisingly  _not_. Uncertain, yes.  _Tentative_ , yes, but not awkward, not  _uncomfortable_... Although... not exactly comfortable either, but something heightened perhaps... 

Something taut like a string waiting to be plucked into sound. It is not entirely him who is drawing an end to himself and pulling it tight, creating a kind of tension that is lacking it’s usual bite, he is  _sure_  of it, because Grantaire is giving him a version of himself he has never seen before not even with any of their friends and it feels... it feels like someone who has always been there, someone who just needed the right environment to show himself, the right... softness from Enjolras to feel safe enough to do so. And Enjolras  _is_  soft this afternoon. He has made himself pliant, cowed as he was by his own behavior, the person  _he_  gives  _Grantaire_  far too often. He would prefer to give him this version of himself even if he’s not quite sure who it is yet, this version who is... receptive... open in a way he usually isn't, because it feels a better match. Enjolras soft and Grantaire almost shy for it. Enjolras in  _Grantaire’s_ sphere,  _his_  cause, and he might scoff at that as he has overheard him often enough arguing with Feuilly over the ultimate futility of art which... how he can believe such things when he creates like this, with so much concentration and devotion... He doesn’t understand his relentless need to undercut the things that are obviously important to him... and  _oh_ -

Grantaire places the brush between his teeth and uses both hands to ease the fabric off his hips and down his thighs and Enjolras places his hand on his shoulder to steady himself as he steps out of them and he does not remove it as Grantaire goes back to work, professional as ever without a wayward glance or comment and Enjolras is half worried he has something to be ashamed of since he won’t even  _look_...

He wants him to look. 

He wants him to  _see_  him...

But he doesn't know if Grantaire even wants to. Just because he feels something coming from him right now it doesn't necessarily mean what he wants it to... So he contents himself with his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, with Grantaire's hand on his hip, eyes on his work and he focuses on the metronome of the loose faucet to keep him steady on his naked feet.

/-/-/

Combeferre does not come back until Grantaire has reached his knee and Enjolras is still holding the paper for him but his hand is not shaking anymore and he only removes his fingers from where they are holding onto Grantaire’s shirt when the door shuts behind him, a noise that seems too loud, too intrusive.

“What time are you meeting Ponine?” Grantaire asks not looking away from his work and Combeferre answers immediately,

“Three.”

And he can’t see it, but he can feel Grantaire smiling to himself as he says softly so only Enjolras can hear, “I like Chinese, you?”

And he says, “Yes,” just as quietly as he traces the bone of his kneecap. 

Combeferre takes the paper from Enjolras and exchanges it for another - calf muscles now.

“Did I mess anything up?” Grantaire asks him and Combeferre’s eyes sweep up the entirety of his painted left side, commenting not at all with a glance or a word at his sudden nudity, and really Enjolras is starting to wonder if he's inordinately unimpressive which is not something he has ever concerned himself with before, but he wants to be beautiful for Grantaire. He wants to be worthy of this paint and this time and Combeferre shakes his head, pausing when he meets Enjolras's eyes and smiling gently at the anxiety he sees in them, “No. Everything is perfect.”

Grantaire nods and continues down his calf.

When he finishes the tops of his feet, he asks him if he wouldn’t mind turning around so he could start on his back and Enjolras does, grateful to have the time to gather his thoughts, shore up his courage in relative private although he is certain Combeferre can read the line of his shoulders just as well as his eyes.

/-/-/

Once Grantaire approaches the back of his ankle Combeferre takes down the print outs and drawings pinned to the wall and gathers his books. He commends Grantaire on his attention to detail, compliments the delicacy of the brushwork and squeezes Enjolras’s one paint-free shoulder with another soft, encouraging smile. 

He murmurs, “I’ll see you at home” and then he’s gone. 

Grantaire gets to his feet wiping his brush on a piece of cloth and sticks it behind his ear like a pencil as he brings the palette to the sink that is still drip drip dripping...

“I just have to set some lights set up,” he tosses over his shoulder. 

“Lights?”

“For the pictures.”

“Oh. Right.” He’d forgotten about the pictures. 

Grantaire turns and wordlessly hands him the robe that had been slung over the back of his desk chair and Enjolras takes it from him but doesn’t put it on. 

"Won't I ruin it?"

"Nah, everything I own has paint on it."

"But... what about smudging?"

"Just don't sit down."

He takes a deep breath.

“Are you uncomfortable with me like this?” 

Grantaire who has begun unspooling some cords and resolutely  _not looking at him_  again nearly drops them at the question.

“No, I... I thought you might be..." 

“I’m not.”

“Ok.”

“I kind of like it,” he says softly.

"Ok."

He doesn't think he is trying to seduce him. He wouldn't know how to begin to do such a thing, but there is a want in him that means to get some kind of reaction other than this...  _politeness_. This odd  _professionalism_  that seems out of place between them. He wants something closer to what occurs between them regularly but without the bitterness, without the bite. Or... at least slightly  _less_  of a bite, and he doesn't know how to get it and he is embarrassed all over again for wanting it in the first place  _especially_  from Grantaire because Grantaire doesn’t like huge pieces of him, pieces of him that are  _important_ and there are pieces of Grantaire that he doesn’t like either, but that suddenly seems utterly irrelevant because neither of them are wearing those pieces like armor now. There’s no battle here. No harsh words, scoffs, dismissals. 

There is only the warm air, paint, and the possibility of his hand on his skin again and he wants it sort of desperately, the floodgates having been opened with the simple acknowledgment that the want  _exists_...

Grantaire looks away, hauls out a stand with an umbrella attached to it, a reflective disc that he props on his chair, and he turns away himself, needing a moment himself, to look at some of Grantaire’s pieces strung haphazardly up and down the wall hanging by twine and rope and jagged tears of butcher's paper stained with more paint, bold swirls of paint in colors that should maybe clash but don’t... 

He looks closer, drawn in, and finds they unsettle him a little bit. There are a few in particular... when he looks at them... they make him feel like he  _shouldn_ ’t be looking. They feel... personal. Like diary entries, or midnight conversations like the ones he has with Combeferre where he sometimes admits things and sometimes lets himself cry over them and this one, this one right here, this hurricane of red and purple and gold makes his stomach churn in a way that is familiar and he looks away from it to find Grantaire watching him. He has his camera in his hands, the lights glowing behind him, and he says, softly,

“Freeze?”

And he does.

Grantaire takes his picture, his unpainted right side angled towards him, his left with his insides printed on his skin nearly touching the painting, like his blood is standing beside him, outside of him.

Grantaire uses it as a back drop for several of the pictures, asking him to shift slightly, raise this arm, don't be afraid to touch the painting it’s dry,  look down, up, away, at him.

At him.

Grantaire taking photographs is different from Grantaire painting. It’s a different kind of concentration, his mouth no longer a hard line, lips parted and soft looking. His frown is still a frown but it’s less intense, more thoughtful, and he wants to smooth it away with his painted hand that Grantaire held when he traced his knuckles, pulled the bones from under his skin to the surface like magic.

He comes closer, closer, snapping away and the way he moves is almost predatory, this slinking towards him...

“Turn away from the painting?” Grantaire murmurs, “At me...? Over your left shoulder... yes...”

Closer closer, snap, snap...

Grantaire sinks to his knees as he shoots the curve of his bottom, the loping line of his thigh imprinted with his handiwork, redpurplegold emblazoned beyond it. Enjolras’s hand rests lightly over himself, his heart a hammer, and when he turns towards him unasked Grantaire nods in approval, snaps his painted thigh, his hip, pausing briefly when Enjolras removes his hand, but rises to his feet again to shoot ribcage, breast, shoulder, throat, cheek, and Grantaire takes the camera away and when he does, when they are face to face without anything between them, camera, brush, Enjolras suddenly becomes aware of the fact of his nakedness in a way he hadn’t before though he had flirted with it, had allowed himself to flirt with it. But Grantaire hadn't been so  _close_  then and he flushes, can feel it creeping up his chest, over his clavicles and Grantaire makes this sound... this sound that he can’t describe but sits low in his belly making the matter even more...  _more_... as he raises the camera again to capture his color moving beneath the blackwork, spreading like ink in water over his skin and Grantaire murmurs, “ _Christ_ ”, under his breath, “ _Fuck_ ”, and Enjolras wants the camera  _gone_.

Without even really making the decision to do so, he puts his hand in front of the lens, blocking the shot and Grantaire moves the camera away immediately and for the first time since they’ve met each other they are on exactly the same page and they reach at the same time, Enjolras’s hands sliding into his hair, Grantaire’s free hand going to his hip and pulling him close and their mouths slot together like they were always meant to.

And he thinks  _oh_ , he thinks  _this_ , because he has never done it, has never kissed, has never had hands on him, not like this, and he feels... _engulfed_  by Grantaire and he didn't know, he didn't  _know_...

They break apart with a gasp because breathing is a thing that needs to happen and he pants into Grantaire's mouth, “I'm getting paint on you...” and Gantaire laughs breathlessly, his head already tilting to fit their mouths back together again, “I told you, I always have paint on me...” and some things... some things are inarguable so there’s no more talking after that, there is sinking down onto the floor, there is paint smearing with sweat, his muscles and bones sliding away, and Grantaire is wearing too much clothing and Enjolras fixes that and afterwards, afterwards Enjolras picks up the camera and he photographs the smudges on Grantaire’s pale skin and he sees it for the canvas it is as well and he wants to mark it with his mouth, leave kisses like bruises, make patterns over his heart like watercolor made from the blood pulled up to just underneath his skin. Grantaire hides his face in his hands so Enjolras photographs his smile beneath them and then he kisses it and Grantaire’s hands in his hair now like he likes, like he never knew he wanted, all of this something he never knew he wanted but always did and he murmurs against his throat, “I’d like to shower with you. Now. And then eat Chinese food and then more of this. All of this.” He runs his hand down down down and Grantaire swallows, breathing hard under his clumsy ministrations and begins to echo them, albeit with more finesse until Enjolras is trembling in his arms again and can do nothing but fall to his back loose limbed and spent, his own forgotten hand resting on Grantaire's thigh, half embarrassed to be pulled so easily from his purpose and half too blissed out to care. He breathes a soft "wow..." up at the ceiling because, really,  _wow..._

Grantaire smiles, murmurs almost to himself, “I guess I’m good for something after all...”

Enjolras freezes, the words of the other night, the words that prompted the necessity of an apology in the first place flooding back. “I didn’t mean it," he says, "What I said, I didn’t mean it.” And before he can argue, because Enjolras  _knows he wants to_ , he continues firmly, “I never mean it when it comes to you...”

And he knows instantly that that...

That was the wrong thing to say.

He can feel Grantaire closing before he even turns his head to see it. It's like a door being slammed shut and he didn’t mean... he didn’t...

"No, Gra-"

“Well shit man, I don’t either." He grins at him tightly, "Like, any of it. It’s just fun to rile you up...” and he adds a lascivious gaze here, eyes traveling over Enjolras’s naked body in a way that is absolutely filthy and not... not what this was at all, not what either of them meant it to be at all and Enjolras knows it’s not, knows this is Grantaire saving face,  _protecting_  himself, and he doesn’t  _have_  to now, he really really  _doesn’t_ -

"Listen to me, I didn't mea-" he tries again to clarify and Grantaire cuts him off with a dismissive hand wave that feels like slap in the face because it's one he  _recognizes._

“Look, I’m not hungry and my shower pressure is shit. You can wash your face in the sink if you want so no one stares at you on the bus...” and he gets up, he leaves him lying on the floor. He goes into what Enjolras assumes is his bedroom and he shuts the door behind him and it’s so loud so loud and so  _wrong_  because... Because he was supposed to be there with him...

But he ruined it because he always always ruins things with Grantaire. He ruined it just like he knew he would before he even set foot in here this morning.

His throat goes tight, so tight he can’t remember what breathing properly feels like and he gets dressed quickly and doesn't bother washing the paint off his face before bolting.

/-/-/

He gets about four blocks before he decides that this is dumb.  

_This is so so dumb..._  

He turns on his heel and he makes his way back to Grantaire's apartment, his resoluteness a familiar fire in his belly though the kindling is different and he stops at the Chinese place he assumes they would have ordered from had he not messed up and had Grantaire not  _exacerbated_  the messing up  _like he always does_  and he doesn’t even know what Grantaire likes and his stomach sinks as he realizes that that doesn’t end at Chinese food so he orders one of everything until he is ridiculously weighed down with plastic bags with  _Have a Nice Day_  happy faces on them and he thinks  _please, please_  as he knocks on his door with his foot. Grantaire answers and his eyes are red but he hasn’t washed Enjolras off him and he blinks at him standing there, more Bags Of Food than Enjolras, and after a second of gaping he takes some from him.

“The fuck?”

“You  _are_  hungry,” he says adamantly. “You scratch your stomach when you’re hungry and you were doing that earlier...”

“Ok...”

“And you deliberately misunderstood me before,” he says dropping the rest of the bags on the floor. “Because you’re afraid of me,” and he comes towards him and Grantaire doesn’t quite back away but his eyes are wide and he’s actually kind of stuck with the counter at his back so he couldn’t anyway. “And I let you because I’m afraid of  _you_... or I was... or... I just...” 

He stops in front him, close enough to touch if they want, far enough to not if they don’t.

“This is so dumb. What we do... You’re not  _a good for nothing waste of skin._ I didn’t mean  _that_. I never mean it when I say things like that to you, I never  _have_  so... so could you believe me please? And could we... could we go back to when we were kissing because that is the only thing that has felt right between us at least from my perspective which I recognize might not be yours, in which case please feel free to interrupt me here because I just barged in on you with an excessive amount of Chinese food and I feel really stupid about it but I didn’t know what you liked and I want to know what you like-”

“You can’t give someone  _permission_  to interrupt you, Enjolras, that takes all the fun out of i-”

And he kisses him quiet, he kisses him slow, he kisses him the only way he knows,  _meaning_  it, and again, stupid  _breath_ -

“I lied," Grantaire gasps. "My shower pressure is  _excellent.”_

_“Excellent.”_

And they stumble apart, tripping over each others limbs and the discarded bags of food on their way to the bathroom and Enjolras takes out his phone, typing as Grantaire hooks his fingers into his belt loops and pulls him inside...

/-/-/

“Mrrph” 

“Sorry...” Ferre whispers into Eponine’s hair as she snuggles into him, or rather, burrows like a forest animal to get away from the insistent chirping of his phone.

**Text from E:**

I owwe you coffee

**Text from E:**

a;; the coffeee

**Text from E:**

and chorres and laundy

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr :)](http://thestarsjustblinkforus.tumblr.com/)


End file.
